


Braids, Lorikeets, and Baby Girls

by artificiallifecreator, RoryKurago



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Athene Noctua Verse, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/F, Gen, Shatterdome Family, Shatterdome Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-25 05:44:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3798952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artificiallifecreator/pseuds/artificiallifecreator, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoryKurago/pseuds/RoryKurago
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short fusion fics between Athene Noctua and Kurago 'verses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Naming of Solar Prophet (Cato & Ima Moya)

**Author's Note:**

> artificiallifecreator and rorykurago have difficulty containing their Pacific Rim feels. And their Ranger feels. And their Rangers with babies and bad habits feels.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Naming of Solar Prophet, in four movements (plus one interlude)

**Hong Kong, March 2016**

 

“So we have no say at all.”

“Of course you have a say, Señorita.” The Peruvian rep’s name is Soya. The twins are the only ones who don’t think that’s funny. “It’s just that this Jaeger represents a substantial investment for the Peruvian government, in addition to a huge symbol of morale for the public. We’d just like a name that is suitably… inspiring.” His hair is slicker than his tone but not by much.

It’s not that the twins are resentful (the Netherlands are never going to build their own Jaeger and Guyana doesn’t have six billion USD lying around). Just a little… disappointed.

It colours their tone when Ima pushes away from the table and the laminated cards spread out in combinations for perusal, saying, “We’ll think about it.” 

How long have they been fighting the reps now against _Inca Glory_ or _Soldadera Solár_? 

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It’s frigid when they exit the embassy. The PPDC car is waiting, but it’s winter and the wind bounds through glass-and-concrete canyons like a hunting dog, snapping at any exposed skin it can find. They bury their hands in the pockets of their quilted jackets before all the warmth from inside can escape. 

The waxy cards in Cato’s pocket press into her fingertips.

The Americans got to name their Jaegers. The Brits too. (But Ranger Pentecost was the Seoul Conference consultant; isn’t that worth something?) It’s childish to dig their heels in like this. But, selfishly, they’d always dreamed of naming their Jaeger as well. Against Cato’s fingertips, the embossed logo on the back of the cards is confused, fragmented, but it’s clear in her mind: the nascent South American Division logo in dull green ( _Cactus green_ , a voice like Ima’s at the back of her mind says unhelpfully. _Rainforest green_.) It’s important that the twins connect with the Jaeger too, Soya assured them; according to Doctor Lightcap, feelings of ownership help strengthen and stabilise the bond between pilots and machine. But there’s a stack of cards heavy in Cato's pocket like--what? Lego? Variables to plug into an equation?

Both twins pause beside the sedan and squint up the street into another gust of wind thick-sharp with the smells of used cooking oil and chemicals. It comes from the northeast: there’s a rubbery sting of kaiju blood in there too, and oily smoke. Their Han Chinese driver wrinkles his nose.

“I guess we’ll have to find something that works for everyone,” Ima says, glancing back from under her knitcap like she read Cato’s mind. She ducks into the car. A tendril brushes Cato’s awareness; she _did_ read Cato’s mind, _dwaas_. 

Her elbow knocks Cato’s as they settle into the back seat (neither willing to expose their hands to the cold yet). _We’ll figure something out. There's time_.

Cato lets her head loll back on the headrest to look past Ima out the back window. Across the harbour, the wounds ripped through the Central District by HK-16 have barely begun to knit, bamboo scaffolding slowly covering buildings like scabs. 

They have time, yes. But how much time?

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Cato sits at the desk in their room shifting through the cards like she’s looking for the combination of someone else’s safe. Two together, nudge one aside. A different two, neither is right. Frustrated, she holds off setting down the one in her handand taps it pensively on the table. 

Something hits the back of her head. “Ophouden.”

Ima’s bunk creaks as she resettles her weight. Cato looks at the floor. The projectile was a scrunched up bit of paper—Ima’s handwriting scrawled through the creases like a cypher. 

The order gives the characters their meaning. Or does it?

Cato stops tapping. Turns the card over. _Nova._ She runs a finger over the slightly raised letters. This is one of the few that really speaks to her, that makes her feel like the answer is closer.

In her mind’s eye she sees stars exploding, cosmic forces ripping and tearing, hydrogen clouds spilling into space staining the black to lurid blue.

The card stock is slick like Soya’s hair; paler than his teeth. She puts it down. 

Another catches her eye. _Solár_. The embassy is neutral on ‘solar’ but—like Nova, this too brings pictures to Cato’s mind. 

Behind her Ima groans. “I can’t focus when you’re doing that.” Another creak of the bed. “I’ve had enough of this tidal calculation stupidity anyway. Give that a break too; we don’t have another meeting with Señor Soya until next week. Let’s go do something.” 

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

“I’ve got it,” Cato gasps on an upstroke.

“What, blood on the brain?” says Ima. This is suspended sit-up twenty-three of thirty, in the third round of their gym programme. Cato’s face is flushed red as a tomato under her brown skin; her braid visibly sweat-wet halfway down its length.

It’s not a patronising question.

“Our name.” 

Ima grimaces at the spots dancing through her vision. “Hit me with it. I could use the distracting."

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Solár Prophet,” Soya repeats mildly, like he’s tasting the phrase.

“It works on a lot of levels,” Ima says as mildly.

“For us as well as you—the public,” Cato adds. She isn’t smug. From inside she can already feel warmth radiating out from the green-and-grey Jaeger waiting for them in Rack Twelve, half-built but already thrumming with strength. The twins stretch ever so slightly; basking lizard-like. 

Ima begins listing the nuances just in case Soya needs more convincing. Watching him with half-lidded eyes, Cato can see he doesn’t. Perfect ten for the Moya routine.

Soya stands up, leans over the table to shake their hands making noises about running it past the bigwigs. “But,” he says confidently, “I think for certain they will approve. This is a good choice.”

Cato ditches the cards on the table on the way out.


	2. Sticky (Chuck Darling & Dana Collier)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dana Collier and Chuck Darling commence passive-aggressively leaving sticky notes around the Shatterdome to mark their territory (and get mutually agitated when third parties attempt to Sort Out Their Problems.)

**Hong Kong, June 2016**

 

Dana can see one person in DriftSci; she knocks on the open door. 

The person - thigh-length black braid and electric green headphones - standing by a desk doesn't acknowledge. 

"Doctor Dao sent me,” Dana offers. “I have the candidate tests?"

Braid raps their knuckles on an adjacent desk, storms to a bookcase. 

"Thanks." Dana enters, deposits the exams on a reasonably flat (clear) spot. "Doc say when she’d be back?”

Braid slams down a stack of binders. 

“Should I leave a note...?”

Braid keeps working. 

“Want to help me out and point out a sticky pad?”

Braid flicks a wrist across the room. 

“Thanks.” Dana finds a couple pens and a very-used stack of blue stickies next to a worn sofa. She scribbles, returns to the pile.

Braid strides to another work station. 

“Hey, uh,” starts Dana. “You mind if I hang around here for a bit? My sister’s kind of commandeered our quarters; found herself a new tech. He’s flexy, apparently.” 

Braid ignores her. 

“I'll be quiet? Over here? Out of your way? By the couch?”

Braid huffs. “You talk a lot.” Aussie. Bit of a northeast drawl mixed up with some other stuff.

“Only when folks can’t muster up a yes/no/bugger off,” Dana replies flatly. “Look, I’ll shut up.”

Braid shunts a file aside harder than needed to find the one beneath. “Yeah, fine, whatever.”

“Thanks.” Dana returns to the couch and sags down. 

She keeps her mouth shut. Drifts off at some point running through combat PACE plans. When she wakes up the lab is empty and there’s a sticky note on her forehead.

_If you’re going to snore in here, next time bring cocoa._

“Right. Sorry.” Scrunching it up, she scrubs a hand over her face and gets up. Pitches the ball across the room into a wastepaper basket. She returns to the sticky pad and draws a simple flower before she leaves.

 

That note is stuck to the door of their quarters when the twins get back from dinner. In tidy print around the edge is a note:

_And don’t waste DriftSci resources._


	3. Lorikeets and Baby Girls (Colliers & Feiby)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the eponymous lorikeets appear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't take the timestamp as law; Rory's waiting on artificiallifecreator's input on the appropriate month.

**Hong Kong, August, 2016**

 

Dana and Tahnee are en route out of the Shatterdome.

Dana and Tahnee are en route out of the Shatterdome with two daypasses, 400HKD and a nappy bag.

Dana and Tahnee are en route out of the Shatterdome with two daypasses, 400HKD, a nappy bag and the Marshal’s baby daughter, and really it’s almost too much like hard work; they nearly turn back at the sentries’ quizzical stares.

But they want a selfie on the Victoria Peak cable-car for the envious folks back in Medowie, there’s a botanical garden they haven’t been to yet, and someone told them there are flamingos. Little ones.

A LOCCENT tech shoving Fei Yen at them with a nappy bag and a brusque “entertain her” is hardly a deterrent. (Or they assume it was 'entertain her'; it was Mando, and they've barely mastered 'where is the train station', but no one took her back.)

Tahnee loves the anklebiters; she gets the papoose (and the baby), and Dana hikes the tote bag up her shoulder and turns her broadest grin on anyone who steps in front of them.

…

Fei Yen is nonplussed by tiny flamingos. The twins are disappointed to learn this, but they move on anyway. The tamarins go over better, and the pygmy marmosets that twist their heads nearly 180 degrees around to look at her squintways better still. But the Colliers are drawn to something else. In an enclosure at a split of the path, mixed in with pigeons and mynahs, are Rainbow lorikeets.

Fei Yen claps her hands.

“Ding ding ding, we have a winner,” Tahnee murmurs.

Dana, sizing her up to get sister and baby and birds all in one photo, just smiles. “Say _vegemite_ ,” she teases.

“No.”

Tahnee’s sticking out her tongue in the photo. Fei Yen is too, one hand clenched in Tahnee’s uniform collar as she leans toward the cage.

“Es’cuse me?” Thick accent, but clear.

They turn in unison. A middle-aged Chinese man stands by the next cage, a girl at his side staring at the twins (and their passenger); a boy on his other side is more interested in the birds. The girl looks about nine; the boy, six.

The man waggles his camera at shoulder height. “You are Rangers, yes?” He nods to Dana’s shirt. The snuggy hides the PPDC insignia on Tahnee, but on Dana it shows bright and clear.

\-- _a lesson in_ _grabbing ‘dome inventory for excursions --_ Tahnee’s mind nudges into Dana’s, an odd pastiche of concepts translating like pictograms. Dana shakes off the image of a lyrebird in a bomber jacket and sends back Graduation Day: flashing cameras and soundbite news interviews.

How stacked are the odds, really? There’s a lot of Westerners in Hong Kong (more now) but identical twins with shorn hair and PPDC patches?

They smile at the man. “Yes, we are.” (Careful to speak properly. Careful not to slur their words.)

“You mind if I take photo? My daughter, she is big fan of Jaegers.”

The women look at each other, look at Fei Yen, look at the man’s daughter—

She looks about to burst or cry.

—and smile. “Sure.” (Elongating the vowels this time so it comes out _shaaaw_ , because there are expectations, and they don’t mind playing up the Aussie.) “With your daughter?”

The girl edges closer to bursting. Her fingers twist in the turned-up hem of her shorts.

“Uh,” he holds up a finger. “One with her, one all together?”

The twins nod. The girl’s face is turning red. (Dana remembers Tahnee turning that red the first time she asked someone out; she doesn’t grunt in pain when Tahnee elbows her. Fei Yen makes a quizzical sound at the sharp movement.)

“Sure mate,” Tahnee says smoothly. “We can do that easy. Just excuse our passenger; we’re babysitting.”

“Nesting, you mean,” Dana mutters as the girl approaches. Ignoring Tahnee’s indignant sound, Dana smiles. “Hi. Wǒ shì Dana.”

Fei Yen looks at her funny.

Whatever the girl thinks of Dana’s pronunciation (terrible), she’s too polite to say. (Her nose wrinkles a little.) Shyly she says, “My name is Li Hua,” in English. She hurries to add, “but in class, my name is April.”

Tahnee bounces Fei Yen, who isn’t thinking much of all this standing around and talking when there are birds to admire, and says “Li Hua is lovely."

Dana adds, "That's the Marshal's name, you know. "  Li Hua nods: she knows. Of course she knows.

Tahnee clears her throat. "Do you want to stand beside us or—”

Nobody stands between them; it’s not a point of contention, just… nobody does. There’s an awkwardness, then, to parting when Li Hua wedges herself between them, splitting her face with a beam, and throws her arms around their waists. It’s the closest non-family non-sparring-partners have been since… They push away the swell of salty cold and smile for the camera ‘Richard’ repositions at arm’s length to get all five of them into a squished selfie. A quizzical lorikeet lands on the closest side of the cage to investigate, photobombing.

Li Hua takes the opportunity to reveal her extensive knowledge of exotic birds. “—and they’re from Australia,” she says finishes breathlessly, pointing to the bird on the tiny screen, “like you, yes?”

Dana grins, because “Yeah, kinda, although we’re inlanders; they’re coastal—like Jaegers”, but Tahnee’s thinking of something else. She pulls a face for the last photo—

“A silly one! Please?” chirrups Li Hua.

Little brother doesn’t care about any of this; they aren’t Horizon Brave, or the Weis, so— Dana quietly imparts to Richard that Horizon Brave will probably-but-he-didn’t-hear-it-from-them be in Kowloon tomorrow afternoon for a community talk on kaiju blue; left hemisphere’s a marine biology hobbyist. Richard's handshake is heartfelt.

Both children chatter at their dad like marmosets as the family departs.

The twins watch them leave. The interaction was invigorating, but Fei Yen’s making cranky noises and something’s tugging at Tahnee’s heartstrings.

While Dana’s scoping out a place to get Fei Yen cooled down and fed, Tahnee looks back at the cage. Her thoughts ghost through Dana’s mind: lorikeets, bright colours, dusty colours, _home_ —

She can’t fault Fei Yen’s choice (although lorikeets are _loud_ and raucous and honestly proof that no animal can be pretty _and_ _sound_ pretty, that’s just greedy) but watching them has nudged something in her and it stings at the disturbance. A powerful wave of homesickness washes through the twins' connection. Close on its heels is a pang of loss.

When she looks back to Dana and starts down the path her eyes are a little too bright.  

 …

They buy a fruit juice and coconut water from a vendor near the entrance and sit on the grass to share them while Fei Yen has a bottle of her own. (Juice for Dana, coconut water for Tahnee, though they sip at both.)

 …

By the time Fei Yen’s finished her bottle and had a micronap on the grass, the shadow’s drifted away from Tahnee and they’re ready to go wandering again. They owe some people a selfie on the Peak, and some other people things from the various markets.

Onward!

 …

It ends with a screaming baby, Hannibal Chau’s minions smugly soothing her when stressed out twins fail, and three pots of tea they can’t pay for in a teahouse with black-lights beside the door, but it starts well enough.


	4. Cimanon Rolls (Colliers & Chuck Darling)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which unusually-drunk Australians discover a sober Australian and adopt it, in a feat they will be embarrassed by for months.

**Hong Kong, August 2016**

 

Chuck is not surprised to find drunk Australians multiplying in her vicinity; it’s eleven at night, and drunk Australians seem to gravitate toward her when she least wants like she puts out some kind of _Aussie Aussie Aussie_ shortwave.

“Taaahnee! It’s Chalk-Chark–its our friend!” Dana drags Tahnee into the Rec. At least Chuck guesses that’s Dana. Bloody identical twins. (The idea to tag their ears like cows drifts through Chuck’s mind, but she files it away. Carefully. For later reference, maybe.)

Tahnee giggles.

“Chhhuck!” Dana flops across Chuck’s lap. “Ya know your name means ‘puke’ right? How’d that happen?”

Chuck eases her work loose. “Americans. And I threw up on someone.” The twins seemed _normal_ when they were sober.

“Oh.”

Tahnee sprawls across a chair. “Na-na, maybe she don’ wanna talk about it.“

Dana wiggles over, worms off Chuck onto the other side of the couch. An overly complicated rearrangement of limbs later, she kneels and leans against Chuck. “Dude, your hair’s so puuurty.”

Chuck flips a page. “Don’t call me ‘dude’, please.”

“Na-na,” says Tahnee wearily. She’s flagging a lot quicker than Dana. Her cheeks are alcohol red and her eyes are half-closed as she contemplates the movements required to fetch the vid-screen remote. “I will sic Uncle Wal on you. See if I don’t.”

Dana pulls back. Pouts a little.

(Drunk pout. Exaggerated. Puppyish? Chuck reconsiders tagging them. Or microchipping maybe.)

“S'rry,” Dana mumbles. Then: “Kin I touch it?”

“Sure.” Chuck tries vainly to read the stapled sheets.

Dana perks up. Runs her hands along Chuck’s braid.

“Soooo prrretty.”

“Thank you.”

“Hey Tahn, waddya reckon the tens'le strength on a braid this thick’d be?”

“Don’t know. Ask Chief.” If Tahnee sinks lower into the armchair, they’ll have to get a digger in to excavate.

“ ‘cause,” Dana says, “ninjas us’ta make like _ropes_ out of hair for climbin’ and shit, cause it’s so light and it folds up so small? ‘n–hey! ‘ _Trauma-catalysed CORO mutation_ ’? What'cha reading?”

“Doctor Lightcap’s hypothesis on gestalt identity theory. I don’t agree with all–” Dana’s eyes, half the size of her head, grow wider. “–of it–-”

“Tahn, did you hear that?”

“I’m hereee.”

“She speaks SCIENCE!”

The armchair giggles.

“Sure–”

“TOO PRECIOUS FOR THIS WOOOOORLD!!!!!!!!”

Chuck finds herself in an odd headlock which she supposes may be a hug.

“My precious cimanon roll!” Dana cries, stroking Chuck’s hair. “Precious, icing cimanon roll!” Cradles Chuck’s head, rocking back and forth. “Protec’ you, ‘n keep you, ‘n rough up boards t’ ge’ you _funding_ –” Hums, presses the side of her to Chuck’s crown. "And you shm–you sm–your scent issss preeetty!” Buries her face in Chuck’s hair.

Chuck can’t seem to escape drunk Rangers but she _can_ escape head locks…

Dana’s fingers are all over Chuck’s jaw and squishing her cheeks. “Jus right for a precious cimanon roll.”

But that would involve damaging said drunk Rangers. If something of the like came up in self-defense class, it may actually be useful.

“Such a precious cimanon roll,” Dana croons, petting Chuck’s hair. “Jus’ wanna protec’ you ‘n lick you ‘n pull out your insides. Like your brain.“ Petting continues. “Mos’ _amaaazing_ brain–” More petting. “I jus wanna open it up an… look ‘nside…”

Tahnee slithers out of the armchair laughing herself hypoxic, and Chuck goes for the kidneys.


	5. It's On (Weis, Colliers, Fei Yen & Chuckles. And a Cat.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Chuck Hansen's fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone makes Fei Yen cry, and then it's ON between the Weis and the Colliers (who already fight over who gets to be the infant's mattress during naptime).

**Hong Kong, August 2016**

 

Fei Yen’s gleefully tearing pages out of his textbook, so Chuck pulls her away – maybe picks her up wrong, how’s he supposed to know? Babies are weird – and she _screams_. 

The adults come running like she’s a kaiju klaxon and there’s Chuck standing by the coffee table holding Fei Yen by the armpits. (The book, face-down on the floor, is quietly forgotten.)

“Aw, Charlie—” starts one twin, rocking back on her heel; the other swoops in and lifts the anklebiter out of his hands. 

“She was ripping my book!”

Twin 2’s bouncing the kid, making shushing noises (and isn’t that typical: _Chuck’s_ the one getting shafted, _someone else_ is getting the sympathy).

Twin 1 (standing left of Twin 2; Tahnee?) starts, “Kid—”

The cavalry storms in with a basketball under one arm.

Dana’s eyes flick to Chuck.

Chuck’s eyes flick to _them_ ; he doesn’t swallow. Chuck is not afraid of Mako. However—

“Why is she crying?!”

—he's a little afraid of the Weis. (He’ll never admit to it.)

“What’d you’d do?!”

Tahnee’s shoulder angles in front of Dana. “Nothing!”

Dana looks at Chuck, at Chuck looking at the Weis, bounces Fei Yen and says straight on the heels of her twin, “Sometimes babies just cry.”

Fei Yen squawks in her ear and grabs a fistful of shorn-short hair.

“Sure,” scoffs Triplet 1 (longest head), “like you would know.”

The gap between the groups shrinks.

“Why wouldn’t we?” demands Tahnee. 

“We’ve known her longer!”  

“She’s an _infant_!”

Triplet 2 (broadest jaw, face set to ‘evil’) shifts his weight, goes for Dana—

Tahnee sidesteps—

Triplet 2 snatches— 

Fei Yen _howls_.

But Dana’s hands are up and the triplets retreat, Hu glaring now, package safely in arms.

Tahnee edges back but her lip’s creeping up.

It’s _on_.

“ ‘ _just cry’_ ,” Triplet 1 mimics as he and Cheung close ranks around Hu. “Mm, ‘ _Pull the other one_ ’, isn’t it?” 

“Aw, sod off, kids _do_ just cry,” Tahnee fires back.

“Yeah? You tell that to her amā,” says Cheung.

Fei Yen screams, beating her tiny fists against Hu’s chest.

“What’s going on in here?” The actual adults have arrived: Kaori and Herc, Duc not far behind.

Chuck visibly shrinks, ears flaming ‘here I am, me, I did it, it was my bad’.

Herc glances at him, frowning, but:

“Just a little light child abuse,” Hu shoots, eyes narrowed at Dana and hand cradling Fei Yen’s head protectively.

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“All right, enough,” Kaori snaps. “You two—” (a jerk of her head at the Colliers) “—Staging Area Safety briefing, Kurago. Go.”

“Yes, ma’am.” They slink out in tandem. 

Fei Yen heaves a sob, wiggles into Hu.

“You three—”

(A defiant tilt to Jin’s chin and Hu’s fingers tightening on Fei Yen’s chubby leg.) 

“—don’t stir shit just for the sake of it.”

Their jaws twitch mulishly, but Cheung nods a fraction of an inch. 

Fei Yen sniffles, burying her snotty nose in Hu’s shoulder. (He doesn’t seem to notice.) One hand clenches his collar; the other flops against his shoulder, curled in a fist around a scrunched-up bit of paper.

Eyeing it, Herc says, “Who was supposed to be watching her?”

“That would be me, Ranger Hansen.”

Duc and Kaori pivot, open a line of sight to the soft voice in the corridor: 

Feng, a little shame-faced. He has a puff of grey fur gathered in his arms. “We were playing and Maau escaped. I was away for only a minute.”

“Kids for you.” Herc offers a smile. “Think it’s time tyke went back to her mum, hey.” 

"Yes, Sir." 

Maau leaps for Cheung, sticks claws-first to his shoulder. 

Feng demurely retrieves Fei Yen from Hu and carries her out, head down.

Herc pauses him just before the door, gently prying free the scrunched-up paper.

Fei Yen squalls again.

“Hey, now,” he says gently, nudging her fingers off one by one, “none of that.”

She glowers into Feng’s neck. 

Herc squeezes his shoulder and sends them on their way.

The triplets exchange looks (then eye Herc and his best Flight Sergeant face) and troop after Feng, Hu cuddling Maau (not an equal trade-off, but the cat’ll do). They shoot a suspicious look back at Chuck like they know something’s fishy before Kaori shoos them down the hall. Duc makes noises about taking them on in the court for the honour of a dessert and wanders after, satisfied the fuss is over for now.

"All right,” says Herc when the footsteps stop echoing. “What happened?”

“She ripped my book,” Chuck says defensively, thrusting the assaulted text onto the table right-side up. “Look, it’s ruined now! It’s not even mine, it’s Chief’s, and he’s never gonna let me borrow stuff again ‘cause of that stupid—!”

“Chuck.”

Chuck subsides, flopping mutinously onto the couch with arms folded.

Herc crouches by the table, paper in hand. “Let’s see what we can do, hey?”

“It’s busted.” Herc gives him a Look and Chuck turns his head aside, chewing on a cheek.

A rustle draws his eyes back. Herc’s fitted the torn piece back in its gap—smoothed the pages, flattened the worst of the creases. Nothing to be done about the grubby little fingerprints, but that’ll have to do. He catches Chuck watching sidelong, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. “See, sport? Little bit o’ sticky and she’ll be good as gold.”

“ ’s not the same.”

Herc sighs. “Nah, mate. It isn’t. But we gotta do what we can with what we’ve got. So tonight, I reckon you oughta go thank the Colliers for taking that heat for you; guaranteed them and the Weis’ll be getting into it now. Chief’s got kids of his own; you tell ‘im what happened, he’ll understand. Meantime, let’s go find that sticky tape, yeah?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xiong Fei Yen and Lin Feng are the wonderful creations of Pickleplum.


	6. Media Presence (Colliers & Moyas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a more _Athene Noctua_ -friendly 'verse, Dana and Tahnee pilot Diablo Intercept out of Lima alongside Solar Prophet. There are pros and cons to this situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rory: I have writer's block, and I hate it. I'm not 100% on the exact timing of this, but it'd be Q2 of 2016, most likely. Perhaps artificiallifecreator might be so kind as to nail that down.

**Lima, August 2016**

In the process of settling into the Lima Shatterdome, there were a million and one questions the world wanted answers to from their new pilots. This press session was the third the Colliers and Moyas had sat through today. Watching Cato lean forward to answer a question into the bank of microphones, Dana thought the Moyas were wearing it better than herself or Tahnee.  
The question was about Cato’s scientific aspirations. Primly, Cato told the room she was aware of the unexpected difficulty the Corps has encountered finding compatible Rangers, and that she had decided she was more use to the world as a Ranger than another academic. For now.  
The room tittered at that, as they were supposed to.  
For someone who claimed not to like big crowds, Cato handled them well, Dana reflected. Ima might preen in the attention, but Cato wasn't exactly floundering.  
Tahnee’s nudge to Dana's thigh was followed by meaningful twitches of her eyebrow and mouth. _You’re biased._  
Dana allowed herself an answering ghost-smile. _Probably_.  
The MC indicated another journo as Cato finished her answer and sat back.  
“Yes, hello,” the man said in English. "A general question: you’ve all been living in Defence Corps facilities now for almost two years. What’s the one thing you miss about the outside?”  
Both of them have to think about that.  
“The sound of rain on the roof,” Dana said; didn’t think too hard. “I love the hum of the environmentals, but it’s just not the same."  
Tahnee stared at her cuticles, chin down. _Mum_. “Milo.”  
From the corner of her eye, Dana saw Cato look sideways at Tahnee while Ima chuckled and leant forward.  
“Well, honestly,” Ima said, "you know in the Netherlands, we ride bicycles everywhere. So I miss my bicycle, I suppose.”  
Cato nodded, eyes flicking away from Tahnee. “Yes, and I miss our cat. I would miss our garden too, but people keep giving me tiny cacti! We love them, but please stop sending them! We’re running out of space in the Shatterdome greenhouse.”  
  
A few days later packages showed up in Receiving—a powder blue bicycle with a purple bow addressed to Ima (a pale yellow one with an orange bow for Cato); a one-kilogram tin of Milo with Nestle’s official thanks to Diablo for the endorsement.  
Tahnee looked at it blankly while Dana conveyed it back to their quarters like a trophy, tallying aloud all the favours they can extort from their crew. Tahnee retreated to her laptop as soon as they were inside.  
Dana trailed off. Put the tin down on their kitchenette bench. She watched Tahnee type for a minute. “Why didn’t you say it?”  
“What?”  
“What you were actually thinking when that guy asked what we missed. You were thinking about Mum.”  
Tahnee actually snorted as she spun her swivel chair around to look at her sister. “And let them know their heroes are afraid?”  
“They already know we’re afraid. Anyone would be. They don’t have to think we’re perfect.”  
“Not everybody’s afraid. The Beckets aren’t.”  
“Bullshit. Those guys talk a bigger game than Ghengis Khan, but I remember The Halloween Freakout. Served that guy right for dressing as Trespasser—”  
“The Jessops aren’t.”  
“Again, Kaori in her Visiting Professional lecture at the Academy this year: everybody has a moment of fear.”  
“I’m not talking about a moment.”  
Dana sat down on the bunk opposite her co-pilot. “We can do this.”  
“Of course we can.”  
“Say it like you mean it.”  
Tahnee stilled, then raised her eyes to Dana’s and let out a long, measured breath. “We can do this.”  
Dana smiled, genuine for all that it spread thinner than their peanut butter allowance at breakfast. “Of course we can. We’re Diablo fucking Intercept.”  
“ _Now_ , and only because the last team cheated—"  
“ _Always_ , and because we’re top of the range in our movement class, and nobody and nothing is going to take that away from us.”  
Tahnee smiled and suddenly she looked as weary as she’d felt in that final conference. “Talk a big talk, don’t you, Righty.”  
“We walk a big walk, Lefty.”  
They were quiet for a moment, sharing wan grins.  
Dana was first to her feet, kicking Tahnee’s boot lightly. “Hey. I bet we can bribe LOCCENT with some of that Milo to give us unrestricted time on a vid-link to Kodiak. Want to talk to Mum and Dad?”  
Tahnee retrieved a plastic container from a cupboard. “I know the perfect target."


	7. Stamina (Joneses & Colliers)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inimitable Jones brothers are the creations of Pickleplum.

**Hong Kong, January 2017**

“Endurance,” Logan brags over breakfast, and Dana looks at her twin again as if needing a reminder who thought Australian Teammate Bonding by sharing a mess table was requisite. (Probably Chantell.) 

“' _Straya_ ,” Tahnee mutters into her porridge. (Chantell beams at the four of them from the tray line.) 

Jackson’s busy frowning at an Aboriginal woman sitting at the other end of the room beside Chuckles; no help from that quarter. Vulcan’s other - the woman - already ate so no help there either. 

“No Jaeger’ll fight longer,” Logan drawls. 

Okay, yes: tactically (according to the brass), Vulcan Specter and Dingo Kurago are supposed to be complementary. Vulcan goes hard, Kurago goes fast. But: 

(Tahnee rolls her eyes around a deeper-than-necessary swig of water.) The ‘complementary’ bit has escaped Jones. Repeatedly. At length. 

 Kurago’s smaller; she was finished faster. On the other hand, she’s also not technically an Australian Jaeger, Vulcan’s pilots are older, and Vulcan is ostensibly the ‘primary' in this one-two punch. Logan’s decided that makes them the boss. So there’s that. 

There’s also this: 

They deadset disagree. On everything. (Mostly on Jaegers. And martial arts. And PT, and _toast_ , and—) Generally, the Colliers sit back and quietly let everyone have their own opinion, but Logan makes a fight out of _everything_ and if he calls them Skip and Sally and dog-whistles at them through the comms again during manoeuvres, he's gonna cark it. 

There will be blood. 

Today he’s gnawing his favourite bone: Kurago’s armour deficiency. 

“‘traded strength for speed’, yadda yadda,” he parrots from the briefing. “It’s bullshit. ‘f ya can’t take a hit, yer useless.” 

“We don’t get hit. That’s the point,” Dana says. “We’re the fast one." 

“In the bloody _sim_.” 

“Specs don’t say we can’t take a hit, Jones,” Tahnee says, less patiently than Dana. “We’re not made of glass." (Yes we are.) “Anyway that’s the point of a Strike Group: strengths and weaknesses. That’s why we’re running Crossfire, shadowing each other.” (Don’t remind me.) 

“Well we know who the weakness is,” Logan snorts around a mouthful of vegemite toast. Jackson huffs and sags his head lower, forking eggs into his mouth mechanically. (He’s still glowering at the Aboriginal tech from under his fringe.) 

Tahnee could be fixing a glitch in her gauntlet; Dana could be consulting techs about metal stress. She toes Tahnee’s boot. 

Logan’s grinning like a goddamn sideshow clown; getting his strife fix. “ ‘m just sayin’: Vulcan’ll outmatch ya half-arsed tincan in a proper brawl any day.”

“Don’t need t' last through a brawl if we can make a quick kill." 

“Yeah but what are the odds of that?”

“What’s your sim score, again?” Tahnee squints at him. Her hand’s aching again and it’s making her tetchy. Logan spreads his feet a little wider under the table and just grins.

"No endurance,” he taunts as they get to their feet.

“Don’t need it,” Tahnee says, anti-freeze sweet. 

“Why take twice the time to do what we can do in half?” 

“Thought women liked stamina.” 

The twins bare their teeth in something that might be smiles. “Nah. Results.” 

“ ‘Stamina’ ’s just what we tell blokes as can’t get ‘em.” 

Chantell pouts as they pass her on her way to a table. 

“Oi, my results are great,” Logan shouts after them.

* * *

  
He whistles at them through the comms during manoeuvres. 

Kurago sprints past so fast the wash thumps a line of fishing boats into their mooring posts, and Vulcan doesn’t catch up to her for an hour. 

(“Tell you what, Mark-III,” Dana says when they come back into line, “you get into our Mark-II motion rig, run for an hour, then tell us what your quads reckon.” 

Vulcan flips them off with one robotic finger.)


	8. ROM (Chuck Darling & Dana Collier)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's a simple experiment," Dr Lightcap says when Chuck throws a wooden alphabet block at her. "They do it with rats."  
> Dana, leaning back against the desk beside Chuck's swivel chair, thinks about computer science lessons and bad Drifts.
> 
> Nobody has a good time when the Drift is 80% trauma, 20% family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post Chuck's brain-melt trial with little Chuck, and Tahnee's car accident. Lightcap's trying to upload brain layouts into Chuck's head with varying degrees of failure, the last of which fried what was left of her depth perception so stairs are once again her worst enemy. When Dana moved to help, Chuck snapped at her to back off. Things have been... Alaskan between them.

 

**Kodiak Island, January 2018:**

 

Chuck’s in the bar nursing two fingers of scotch. She doesn’t normally drink (Lightcap’d probably pitch a fit if she knew Chuck was scrambling her brain more) but today was a shitshow, after that godawful ‘Read-Only’ Drift with—

“Hey,” rasps Collier.

Chuck grinds her teeth. Half turns on the barstool. “Look, ‘m sorry for perving on ya mum or whoever—“

“Godmother.”

“—but have ya heard of ‘personal space’?”

Collier looks rough as guts, haggard in the chop-and-change downlights of the pub. Her grin’s flat as a tablet. “Yeah, but I haven’t seen you in here before, 'n yer in my seat."

Chuck looks down. Stool’s the wrong height. She looks at her glass; cut’s wrong. Crushed ice instead of cubed.

Bugger. 

“Albatross is down the street,” Collier’s voice cuts low through her cussing. 

Chuck’s walked into Collier’s bloody haunt (only needed to stop twice), still hungover from the bloody Drift. Last time Lightcap gets to run a ‘simple experiment’ unquestioned. Chuck cusses under her breath again and goes to knock back her drink and stand in one. 

Collier’s hand clamps on her shoulder. “Siddown,” she mumbles. “Finish ya drink.”

Chuck’s about to break her pinky when the hand retracts; Collier’s taken a stool beside her. (The right, Chuck notices. Cheeky bint.) “Oh, thankee kindly,” Chuck says snidely. “Don’t mind if I do.”

“Piss off,” Dana snaps, hard-eyed. “I just meant don’t pull up stakes ’n go running off.” 

 _ _—_ hard eyes, hard mouth, _don’t  _look_  at me like that _,_ Wal _I just—_

The bartender deposits a scotch in front of Collier as Chuck shunts the echoes to the back of her mind. Read-Only. Pheh.

Collier’s mouth twitches. She buries it in a heavy swig from the glass. 

The taste rolls over Chuck’s tongue, smoky (‘ _peaty'_ , says Wirriri,  _spose’ta be anyway. Smells like bullshit t’ me—)._ She’s maybe being too harsh. It’s not  _all_ Collier’s fault it went pear-shaped.

“So,” Chuck tries. “Godmother, ay?”

“Haven’t spoken to her in ten years,” Collier says after a moment. “She’s kind of a…”

“Cunt?”

That startles a huff of laughter out. Not the word Collier was grasping for but exactly the one she meant. “Kind of.”

They lapse into silence. People leave. A couple more arrive. (No PPDC; maybe she’ll fight Collier for this place as a watering hole? The Joneses wouldn’t find their way here; though she wouldn’t trust ‘em not to find it just t’ get up her nose.) Three songs spin through the radio. Some country tune comes on

— _where do you go when you’re lonely, where do you go when you’re blue, I’ll follow you—_

Chuck’s surprised to find she doesn’t hate it completely. “She looks like my auntie Cass,” she says reflectively.

Collier squints at her in the bar mirror. “What?”

“Ya god-mum. She looks like my Auntie.”

Collier snorts. “Unless your auntie ever threw live chickens in an argument, I doubt there’s much resemblance.”

“Wouldn’t put anything past that shriveled-up old catfish.”

That’s almost a smile on Collier’s face.

Chuck feels marginally less bad about plotting to murder her for the stairs incident.

 


	9. Like A Fox That Needs Shooting (Jones & Collier)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan knows what sore spots to poke at to get his jollies. After ten months pushing away over-zealous cadets at the Academy and a tenuous transition to J-Tech, Dana's are chafed red-raw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, the ill-advised Jones brothers are pickleplum's babbies. I'm just watching them for the weekend.

**Sydney, August 2018**

 

Dana’s been back in Sydney half a month when Logan gets to her.

At the time – bruised (inside and out), no co-pilot, nursing a pinched finger because nobody said this J-Tech gig would be easy – she has zero endurance for Jones’ particular brand of targeting. It’s no excuse.

Stahl’s bodily between them before she can fully react to the first verbal jab, quick with his earnest, “Not worth it, grasshopper.” A tilt of his chin; raised eyebrows. (Don’t you reckon?)

Rangers are valuable, the expression says. Techs are not. Not even ex-Ranger ones. Dana turns back to the filter she was cleaning with wire brush still gripped in hand like a truncheon.

That was the first shot. The rev-up. _(“What, d’ya give up bein’ a Ranger? Too much like hard work for Daddy’s little girl?”_ )

Stahl prevented her taking the bait; Jones doesn’t move but the techs go back to working. No show today. (No show ever, most likely: Dana has good control, Stahl is vigilant, and the Joneses are their commanders.) Stahl still looks back over his shoulder like Logan’s a fox he’d like to shoot.

It’s the second shot that gets her. Logan's got his hands in his pockets, squinting up at Vulcan with his cheeks sucked in. This dart hits flesh, dead centre of an abscess shaped like a dead sister, and envenomed to boot:

“She musta been a pretty shithouse Ranger. Dunno how she drove a three-megatonne robot if she managed ta wrap a two-tonne ute around a tree.”

Dana nearly tears his face off.

Logan gives back as good as he gets, but he’s getting what he wants: blood. Strife. A cortical rush.

Psych file says he’s got Antisocial Personality Disorder, but it’s a good thing Dana’s non-verbal or she’d be shouting that he’s a fucking sociopath in the middle of the Staging Area. That never goes down well with the brass.

(With her luck, he'd laugh and wear it with pride.) 

They’re hard up against Vulcan’s foot by the time anyone gets close enough to intervene--muffled thuds of elbows on forearms and ribs poorly-cushioned by coveralls drawing a crowd. Someone’s already alerted the MPs. LOCCENT. There’ll be hell to pay.

There's blood down Logan's grey shirt. A dirty bootprint just above Dana's knee.

Her head bounces off a metal panel with a straight she’s too slow to dodge when he follows the jam through with a one-two. Equilibrium's fucked; Logan tagged her in one ear and the other one feels like it’s bleeding. Sirens whining in both of them: _stop now stop now stop now_.

Logan sways away from a knee to his guts, hamstrung by her fistful of his collar, and comes in with a straight. ( _Endurance_ , he said.)

She ducks; sweeps, locks, sidesteps.

Logan smashes face-first into the panel, his elbow locked straight by her armpit.

Stahl catches the hook that muscle memory launches at the back of Logan’s head in the crook of his own elbow. Yanks Dana out of the scrap like faulty wire. Logan’s arm goes with her, flipping him off the panel. There’s a face-print smeared bloody on the metal.

He comes out swinging: left rip at her ribs.

Dana wears it. Hauls on his arm for leverage and drives a knee into the margin of soft tissue and veterbro-chondral ribs.

Logan grunts and tries to jag her.

They spin away from Stahl (away from Vulcan) grappling. This time they go down. Logan gets a hand tangled in Dana’s dogtags and rips.

 

It takes Stahl and two more men to drag Dana up and away. Two more to hold back Logan.

Dana’s got two black eyes and a bleeding ear but Jones looks like a kaiju stomped him and he’s not breathing right when he gets up.

The MPs have arrived. They form a bodywall between the combatants, directing the techs holding each to the appropriate destination. Dana bares bloody teeth at Logan over their shoulders as Stahl and Oboza frogmarch her away.

Slapping off the tech trying to steady him, Logan sucks blood off his own teeth and swallows.

 

He gets a reprimand. (“Third time this month, Ranger—and _Collier_ , for fuck’s sake?”) Another set of psych reviews.

Dana gets three days in confinement, then three months mandated anger management courses.

When Logan limps back to quarters, there's no sign of Andrea (she won't stand the sight of him for a week), and Jackson just gives him that Look and takes his work to do elsewhere. 

(When Derek shows up four months later, he avoids Logan more assiduously than usual, but more than _all the time_ is still **_all_** _the time_. Logan’s even more pleased when Little Bro gives Collier the same wary looks he gives Logan ‘n Jack. _That_ oughta put a bee in her oily little patrol cap.) 

 

It doesn’t sweeten Dana to learn when she gets out of confinement that she earned people a lot of money in a betting pool on how long it’d take Jones to get around to trying to rile her, or that her perforated eardrum matches his cracked ribs.

(It might, the tiniest bit, when Stahl uses some of what _he_ earned to tote in a handful of fresh nectarines from his family’s farm.)

 

Logan grins for three months like he’s counting down the days. Jackson just watches, eyes narrow. If Logan’s a fox Stahl would happily shoot, then Dana’s a working dog that bites.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Incendier](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4082677) by [Gothams_Only_Wolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gothams_Only_Wolf/pseuds/Gothams_Only_Wolf), [pickleplum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pickleplum/pseuds/pickleplum)




End file.
